I go click-click in your hand, I buzz in the barber's shop, I'm not a ship, not a film, But hair and nails, I trim.

I sizzle and pop inside the pan, then curl and crisp as brown as I can.

I hold your finest feasts and light meals, Yet I never take a single bite myself. Spin me around, and I shift beneath your meal, On the Earth's fiery crust, I am molten rock by another name.

In the cooler, a delight so fine, Yellow, white, or blue, it ages with time. Paired with bread or fruit, it's a grand feast, A comfort for all, from west to east.

Close them and you won't see a thing.